A Loving Sister's Dreams
by civilwarrose
Summary: Historical fiction based on the real Anastasia and her sister Maria, inspired by the book 'The Lost Crown' and miniseries 'The Last Tsars.' Grand Duchess Maria ponders her life, future, and hopes for her sister Anastasia while confined in the Ipatiev House. The Little Pair meet a guard named Ivan and share a brief spark of romance and friendship.


**A Loving Sister's Dreams**

Anastasia (1997), Anastasia the Musical

The Last Tsars (TV Miniseries)

The Lost Crown by Sarah Miller (Novel)

_A.N.- This is more a historical fiction oneshot than a fanfic for 'Anastasia' the animated movie or musical. I've been inspired to write after finishing the book 'The Lost Crown' by Sarah Miller, as well as the miniseries 'The Last Tsars.' These two works are not available as fandoms in the archive as of yet. _

_..._

I have breakfast with Mama, Papa, Anastasia, and the Big Pair as usual. Black bread, tea, hard boiled eggs, which are not my favorite. It's past time to complain, though. Our dear, loyal Kharitinov tries to do his best cooking with the sparse ingredients he was given. Baby is still upstairs in his sickbed. He is breakfasting with his new servant friend Leonka, which is a pleasant and happy occasion for his sake. Alexei needed a friend. Before we eat, we pray for his recovery. If we must be relocated again- and from the talk we hear among the guards, that day would come very soon- we fervently hope that he will be able to walk and have the strength for travel.

The thought of being moved again thrills me so much! I hate it here with the whitewashed windows, stuffy hot rooms, and the dull nothing that goes on in our daily lives. Perhaps we will be sent away in a boat along the Crimean Sea! To live in peace in exile somewhere in Europe, no longer a powerful Imperial family. We just may become ordinary young women at last!

Being a Grand Duchess was a charmed life, it was true. Yet, that old life of privilege came with chains and limitations that my sisters and I were all too familiar with. The house arrest in Tobolsk turned out to be a relaxing and happy time for us, surprisingly. We felt like we could be our true selves for once. No pressure, no parades and crowds, no pomp and ceremony. Almost, but not quite, like our happy days in the war infirmary when we served our darling soldiers.

Oh, the _soldiers_! Their handsome faces will live forever in our memories! Whenever I hear Olga crying softly in the night, I always wonder if she is still dreaming of Mitya, the officer with the dark ebony eyes. Or her first love, Pavel, with his charming grin and mustache. Olga blessed his marriage to another, though her heart was pierced through like a sewing needle at the time.

She simply couldn't be with any of those kind of men before. Just like I could never dream of having Nicolai as my own beloved. I remember hating the way Anastasia teased me about my fondness for my favorite soldier. She mercilessly called Nicolai 'fat-faced' and said he resembled Ortipo, our bulldog. It was just the way she was, but now I've forgiven her. She was only acting how an impish little sister was expected to behave, being the _Shvibzik _she was. She wasn't as into the soldiers as the rest of us were. If she'd begun to have feelings for boys, she was surely keeping it to herself.

And yes, I still cry in private when remembering Nicolai, because I doubt I will ever see or speak to him on this earth again. If he is still alive, which I pray he is, I don't know where in Russia he was sent to. I only hope he remained faithful for us and fights for the White Army now. I wonder if someday I may meet another boy who is just like him in any way. If I did, I would be happy.

It is true that Olga still dreads the idea of ever having to leave Russia. Tatiana feels the same about it. Anastasia and I, though- we love an adventure. We tried to argue with them about it last night. Anastasia expressed it so well, in a way only Anastasia could. She dressed up Jemmy, Ortipo and Joy in little miniature _babushka_ scarves and pretended to 'sail' the three dogs on her bed while narrating a puppet play of sorts.

_'Wherever SHALL we go?' Anastasia squealed in a high-pitched and dramatic voice. She clutched and waved Jemmy's front paw, as if the little dog were a living puppet._

_'Paree! Let's go to Paree!' She lowered her voice as she moved her hand to the little bulldog Ortipo's muzzle. While she was trying to control Ortipo, Joy leaped from the 'boat' Anastasia had made from a quilt on the bed, bounding towards Olga and Tatiana seated upon the floor. _

_Anastasia gave the dog an exasperated look. __'Joy, you left the stage before you were to say your line! Your line is 'Together in Paris! As long as we love each other!' she scolded._

I laughed so merrily at my sister's performance. The theme she tried to convey from her silly dog show was the same as always. Even if we had to leave Russia, we would be happy as long as we were together.

Presently, I excuse myself from the breakfast table and go back to our room, joining the Big Pair to work on 'arranging medicines.' I watch Anastasia go off to Baby's room to play with him and young Leonka, likely to create another stage production using Alexei's toy soldiers instead of our dogs. My younger sister really ought to become a playwright, actress, or film director when she gets older, I ponder to myself. And now that she is no longer obligated to belong to the Empire of All Russia, or the dreadful fate of marrying some cold, boorish Prince from our extended family trees- that may just come _true_ for her someday! I do hope it happens for her.

Can't you just imagine it? Anastasia, meeting and mingling with all those darling silent film stars in America! Directing a movie while pacing next to a folding chair bearing only her first name. She'd be wearing a pair of trousers, her hair cut short in a bob. No makeup. She would boldly command the actors and actresses where to stand, how to gesture, making her funny exaggerated faces to get the scene just how she wants it! Perhaps, despite the fact she wouldn't dress ladylike, she'd get one of those dashing actors to fall in love with her! Of course, myself and the rest of my sisters, Baby, Papa, and Mama would be invited to a movie-star's wedding...

Silly daydream, I know! But I want so much for Anastasia to be happy and reach her full potential. I love our little _Shvibzik _dearly and our lives would be dull without her. And to think, her birth had been a disappointment at first. She wasn't the longed-for boy, but her place in our family was God's plan and blessing. Certainly we have always called Alexei our 'Sunshine,' the boy Papa desperately needed for Russia. Yet, Anastasia is truly our greatest source of laughter.

Olga, Tatiana, and I presently take up our thread and needles. Making certain the door is closed, Tatiana sneaks the precious silk bag out from underneath her bed- the bag containing the rest of the jewels. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and ropes of fine pearl necklaces lie in a pile on the floor. We each take a garment and go to work, sewing the jewels in a pouch of fabric, then sewing that pouch into the lining of a chemise or underskirt. I wear some of them at the moment. It feels very uncomfortable as I'm sitting. A jewel digs into the flesh of my waist, and I'll need to take it off and re-sew it later.

While we sew, I watch the small clock to wait for it to turn ten-o'-clock, the time when we are allowed outside in the courtyard for fresh air and a walk. The clock is placed over Tatiana's bed on the wall next to the portrait of Our Friend. Unpleasant thoughts about him enter my mind.

God rest his errant soul. A guard sneered in derision once, when he saw his picture. Those horrible, vulgar rumors about Father Grigori were not true! _Mama?_ Never! They all hated her, never knowing how good, and pious, and sad of heart Mama was. Only Papa and us children know the real Alexandra. Russia only sees her as an ice-cold, uncaring, snobbish Empress, which couldn't be farther from the truth. They seem happy to spread terrible lies, Our Friend being the perfect scapegoat.

Though to be fair, I learned from hearing the guards' talk while in Tobolsk that at least _some_ of the terrible things they accused Father Grigori of must have been true! So many of them were saying the same things, having such fun with their dirty jokes about it. It disturbs me greatly and shatters my illusions to bits. What a hypocrite he was then, supposing to be a holy man of God and having performed all those wonderful blessings over Baby to make him well. He was _supposed_ to have had a wife and children. To think that he truly philandered with so many other women, got himself repeatedly drunk, and finally was led like a rat to his death by that vulgar Felix!

Whatever sins he actually committed in his life, his gruesome, slow death must have led to his redemption of them. I do pray that while he was dying in that freezing river, he repented of those things. I forgive Father Grigori now.

He was only one example of the things I once believed in turning out so horribly wrong. I thought no one would ever want to mistreat Papa and Baby. Yet they treat poor Papa, who had once been their noble Tsar, like mere dirt, a nobody. Papa never fights back. He bears the weight of the world on his slumping shoulders, taking his punishment like a gentleman and turning the other cheek. Bless Papa! They treat Baby, with his disability, like some nuisance. Of course, most of them have eyes filled with pure hatred for Mama.

In less than a year and a half, our world has been shattered to pieces. But with all that could go wrong, all that we've lost as a family, there is nothing else we can lose except for our country. They can never take our dignity, our love, or our God.

Olga has said that we could pay for Russia's grievances with our lives. I will not hear of that. It is just too terrifying to believe! Besides, if they wanted to kill us, they would have done so back at the Palace. Here, it seems as if the new group of guards are mildly tolerating us and just hoping to send us off soon.

I've been growing very curious about a few members of the latest group of Bolshevik guards. Especially the one I see in the hallways with the light brown hair and sweet blue eyes. He has to be only about my age. He smiled at me once. Could it be that one of the Bolshevik soldiers is a decent human being after all? I don't want to be 'naive little Maria' anymore. I don't want to trust anyone, but my heart and soul demand to find goodness and kindness in anyone I can. If I could only make _one_ friend among these men who hate us, soften only one heart, maybe they would _see_ that we are not the terrible family they want to avenge.

I glance quickly at poor dead Father Grigori's picture, and then back to the clock. It is five minutes to ten now. I want to go outdoors and get some air.

"Tatiana, it's almost time to take our walk outside," I tell her, after knotting the thread to finish one small handful of jewels now embedded in a white chemise.

"You may leave if you wish, Mashka."

'The Governess' looks at me with such resigned sadness, Mama's usual expression. Tatiana and Mama are so alike it hurts. I glance at Olga; she too, has that pained expression on her face as she runs the needle and thread through an eyelet-trimmed underskirt. Mama and the Big Pair tend to wallow in what we have lost and in fear for the future, while Anastasia and I, the Little Pair, have been doing our best to look on the bright side of everything. New futures, new lives. At nineteen and seventeen, our stories are just beginning! My dreams just may come true!

I leave the room where the Big Pair continue to sew. I quietly walk down the flight of stairs and go outside into the dull courtyard surrounded by the walls of the mansion and that horrible fence. It is partly cloudy today, so it is not so hot. A breeze musses the short waves of my hair, and I can hear horses and street cars in the distance. I wish I could go and mingle with the ordinary folk who live here in Ekaterinburg. I do believe they might not recognize me if I wear the plain clothes I am wearing. I have on a long black skirt and plain white blouse, my hair still short after last year's bout of measles and the shearing of our long tresses. I'd like them to see me as a girl, not as royalty or fallen royalty for that matter.

I wish to marry a wonderful man who is not a royal. I hope he is a handsome soldier. I wish to have a dozen children, and I wish for my younger sister to become a creative genius. For my brother to be well and live a long life even though he will never become the Tsar Alexei II. I wish happy marriages for all three of my sisters, and I wish Papa to be at peace, in the fresh air of a country home and for Mama's burdens to be lifted so she can once again be that bright, charming woman I saw in the photo album, taken the first year of my parents' marriage. The one where Papa acted silly and formed a human pyramid with his European royal cousins. He made Mama climb up on some other man's shoulders. When I look at her expression, how much_ life_ she had then, I can barely believe this is the same person who now sits sadly in a chair all day, sewing, writing in her diary and playing card games. She's become an old woman, though she is merely forty-six. Mama can't help it, for her heart has been bad for years.

"Only a half hour and you must go back inside, Citizen Romanova!"

A sharp voice pulls me out of my deep thoughts. It's the new chief of the guard, whose name I haven't learned yet. I look over at the thickly-built man as he stands in the corner of the fenced-in grounds. He carries a rifle in one hand, an ash-dripping cigarette in the other. I've become used to the rifles now. After all, I've spent my whole life with magnificent regiments of armed soldiers who always must keep a rifle or bayonet on their persons. It was simply their accessory. Around us, the five Imperial children, they only fired off the guns for ceremony. I don't believe this Bolshevik would have any reason to aim his gun at me. I'm only a girl now, 'Citizen Romanova,' walking up and down a yard while trying to indulge in private fantasies. He must see that I'm harmless.

He glares at me with contempt, his eyes narrow and dark and overtaken by heavy brows. I decide to walk at a brisk pace the whole length of the yard, my skirt swaying, wondering if Anastasia is going to come out to walk with me. She typically does. I hear the faint voices of men- a businesslike conversation between the guard who addressed me, and another one. Something about times of the hour, schedules and such.

"Yes, Comrade!" I hear the second man say with deference to the first. I can sense him walking nearer while I look down on the ground. I decide to look up, and I see that it is none other than the blue-eyed guard from the hallway. The one who smiled at me! He's a friendly one, I can sense it. The first one- the larger, new chief with the dark-browed scowl, has gone back inside the house.

"Good day, Citizen Romanova," the guard greets me in a lowered, polite tone. His hands are stuffed in his pockets while his rifle just sort of dangles by its strap, along his shoulder. He begins to walk in step next to me. He's tall and slim, like Olga's dear Mitya was. He has a pointed, chiseled jaw and a prominent brown mustache, just like Olga's old friend Pavel had. I turn to face him and he meets my gaze. His deep-set eyes have a kind, teasing look to them, like Nicolai's used to be. They're actually more green than blue. Freckles dot his cheeks.

"Is there anything we can do to make your stay more pleasant?" he says to me while his eyes scan the yard, mansion wall, and fence.

If Anastasia were here, she would say _"Tear down the fence! Let us go to services at the church! Take out those stupid whitewashed windows and put up new windows so we can see outside!"_ But I'm not Anastasia. I don't have half the spunk she has.

I shrug a little and say, "It would be nice to allow us to celebrate birthdays when we have them. My sister just had her seventeenth birthday last week. And nothing special happened for her at mealtime. No cake, and we felt as if we could not even sing a birthday song to her. We did make up a few homemade gifts. She appreciated them, but it wasn't the same."

"I _doubt_ it would be the same as what you're accustomed to." He scoffs, but it was more a teasing scoff than a hateful one. I catch a smile pulling at his lip.

"I can live perfectly fine without Fabergé eggs and diamond tiaras," I reply matter-of-factly.

"That is good to know. I'm actually surprised. You and your sisters don't seem anything like I imagined you to be. You seem...ordinary."

"_Really_?" My spirits lift as I feel a smile burst upon my face. His eyebrow raises.

"You take that as a compliment?"

"Of _course_ I do."

"You are a mystery to me, Your Imperial High-" He fumbles, and a bit of nervousness flash in his eyes. "I mean, _Citizen Maria Romanova_."

"You're _not_ a Bolshevik, are you?" I stopped walking and faced him head on. "If you were a Bolshevik," I whispered, "you would not have started to call me that!"

"I'm not officially a member of the Party, no." He crossed his arms and put on a casual stance, while we kept a polite distance from each other. "I only took this position because it's a job. That's all I wanted, was a _job._ I could care less about...all that."

"You want to work to help feed your family," I said with empathy. "Do you have a wife? A baby?" I asked.

A blush of red came over his freckled cheeks. "No, nothing like that. I needed a job to help my mother and sister out. My father and both of my brothers-" His eyes reddened. My heart felt like it was starting to melt at the sight of his pain.

"I am so sorry! Bless their souls for their service to Russia," I whispered in solemn respect.

"I hate this war. One should finally be coming to an end, and now another one is starting."

"Why weren't you able to join up with them?" I ask in curiosity. His lips form an uncomfortable line, and I feel bad because it seems I'd offended him. He may think I suspect him to be a coward.

"I missed the last recruitment drive here in 1917 because I had the measles. And in 1915, I wasn't of age."

"I had the measles last year, too!" I exclaim. "All my sisters and my brother had it."

"So we have something in common," he says with his smile returning slightly. "How old are you, Citizen Maria Romanova?"

"My birthday is coming up next Sunday. I'm almost nineteen."

"I'm nineteen. If I only were a year older I could have died with my brothers and father."

"I am truly sorry for your loss," I say, feeling like that was all I _could_ say. "Can you tell me your name? I'd like to know. So to be able to call you by something. I've only heard the men call you 'Comrade' so far. You people _do_ have names, you know."

"Ivan," he replied. My heart warmed. It was his first name, not his last.

"It is good to get to know you, Ivan. I'd like to hear you call me...just 'Maria.'

I know I'm smiling stupidly. Just like a few years ago at the palace's infirmary, when I was a silly fifteen-year-old child and I felt giddy when Nicolai, lying in his bed with bandages on his neck and chest, called me 'Maria' when I asked him to instead of 'Your Imperial Highness.' Then, I felt as if he might get in trouble for not addressing me with respect. Ever since then, whenever a young man utters 'Maria' it fills me with a sparkle of joy, a communion with this other soul, sort of like being able to relate and dine at the same table of life. Plus, it happens so rarely now that I'm past childhood.

"All right, _Just-Maria,_" Ivan says, smiling at me even more broadly than he did that day in the hallway. "Maria," he repeats, with a soft tone to his voice.

"Thank you, Ivan. I appreciate it," I tell him.

"Your birthday is next Sunday?"

"Yes."

Ivan nods to himself, then places his finger to his temple. "Next Sunday. I've got it in my head. So you can count on me to do something special for your birthday, Maria."

"Thank you," I repeat. I feel awkward all of a sudden, so I make the gesture I've always made for my subjects since childhood. I extend my hand with my palm downward, for him to take. People greeted us by grasping our hand for a moment, then giving a short bow, head and body lowered. High officials and fellow royalty followed that gesture with cheek kisses as they did for Papa.

Ivan grasps my hand, holding it for longer than he should according to the old, defunct protocol. My cheeks feel so warm, and it's from more than just the breaking June sunshine.

_"Ha! Of course! I should have known!" _The loud voice of a teenage girl breaks the moment, followed by a giggle.

"Anastasia!" I shout, flustered. She finally made it outside, picking the most inopportune moment. She strides over to us, carrying the little dog Joy in her arms and wearing the exact same outfit as mine. Her black skirt is bobbing back and forth on her short form. Her blue eyes narrow as she gives me that _look- _her vintage _Shvibzik_ look that always precedes a mocking or teasing remark.

"It never ends!" she says in an almost scolding tone. "Sir, excuse me, but my sister has been _told_ not to fraternize, just as much as you have." She sounds more like our 'Governess' Tatiana!

"We were just talking," I say in defense.

"You talk too much to them."

"Well, I wanted _someone_ to talk to, Nastya. And he's the only person present at the moment. You didn't come out to join me for a walk."

"Baby and Leonka wanted us to read them a story. And by 'us,' I mean Joy and I." She wiggles Joy's little paw before setting the dog down on the ground. "All right, do your business!"

"May I ask you ladies a question?" Ivan asks, standing in the middle between us as we watch Joy trot over to the fence to tend to dog needs.

"Yes. Ask away!" Anastasia exclaims, putting her hands on her hips. "We _like_ to answer questions. And guess what? I'm full of useless knowledge from all the tutoring I've been given all my life! All to waste now since I'm Private Citizen Anastasia, and I shall have no use telling you facts about the history of the Romanov dynasty, since we are no longer relevant!"

Poor Ivan steps back, slightly intimidated by my spitfire little sister. "What I wanted to ask you is- exactly how old is your brother Baby?'"

"Thirteen. He will be fourteen in about a month and a half," I reply.

Ivan shakes his head and makes a bit of an amused face. Anastasia makes a snorting sound. "Do you have a _problem_ with something?" she asks, certainly sensing Ivan's more gentle and compliant nature like a chicken sensing the pecking order.

"Well, it's just that...don't you think the Tsarevitch is a little _old_ now to be called that nickname?" Ivan says, walking on eggshells a bit.

"He's Baby. He's always been Baby," Anastasia retorts. "It is what our mother and father still call him, and until _they_ stop, _we_ won't stop calling him that."

"And he's been so ill," I add. "Alexei needs more tender loving care than most other children his age."

Anastasia's eyebrows fly up immediately, and I know that I ought to eat my words. But I've done nothing wrong, to say it now! Before this all happened, it was imperative that one must never, _ever_ speak of Alexei's condition in front of anyone outside the family, And now- here I had gone there. It's another sign that our old world is no longer, it's over. If everyone knows Alexei could die from only a bruise or cut, it doesn't matter. He's no more special than any other boy.

"It's as if...you don't expect Alexei to ever _become_ a man," says Ivan with a frown. I glance over at Anastasia again. I can almost see smoke coming out of her ears.

"_What is that supposed to mean_?" Anastasia's voice has soared an octave higher. Long ago, whenever I made Anastasia angry, whenever her voice raised like that when we were little girls, it often resulted in one of her patent-leather shoes painfully striking my shin. For years I was her personal punching bag, or _kicking_ bag, to be exact.

"You all baby him, in more ways than just the name. You still wait on him hand and foot," Ivan says.

"He needs it," I say. "He's sick."

"_Why_ wouldn't we expect him to become a man?" Anastasia says in almost a growl. Ivan steps back from her.

"Never mind. Just...forget I asked," Ivan waves his hands and his rifle swings on his shoulder with the movement. Having gotten to know Ivan now, I highly doubt that he would even have the heart to shoot a squirrel with it. He's truly a darling.

"_Joy!_" calls Anastasia, and she goes to chase the dog playfully, scooping him up in her arms and whirling him in a dizzy circle. "I'm going back inside. Leonka says Kharitinov is going to bake bread, and I want to help!" she says in eager enthusiasm. Her teenage mood swings are exasperating to me. One moment she looks like she's about to pummel Ivan, and the next, she's skipping with the dog and talking about baking bread. She disappears into the stairwell. Ivan and I are alone again.

Until the new chief of the guard appears. "Time to go inside, Citizen Romanova!" he growls. "Comrade Skorokhodov! Escort her, if you please."

I study his face. He looks as if he is trying so desperately to keep a straight, grim expression. He nods, and we walk together to the stairwell entrance, where Anastasia had gone just a moment before. When we reach the hallway leading to the kitchen, we part ways, but not before exchanging another warm smile of friendship.

...

_Epilogue. Three Months Later- September 1918 _

My name is Ivan Skorokhodov, and I only wanted a job.

I was fired from that job guarding the Ipatiev House in late June, immediately after I arranged to have a birthday cake baked for Maria. I will never forget the look of delight on her sweet face when I brought it to her. It was a day I will always remember and treasure in my heart.

Today, I decide to take a walk out into the Kopyatki Forest, not telling anyone where I am going. For two months I had no idea what went on in that house after I was terminated, and if I were to turn back time, I never would have chosen to go have that drink with Medvedev and Nikulin the other night. If I hadn't, I never would have learned the truth.

I only listened to Medvedev and Nikulin talk for about five minutes, before I excused myself from the pub and ran out into the night. When I reached the alleyway, I threw up. After that, I went to bed, and for the last several days, I've been trying to not think, or feel, at all.

Medvedev, Nikulin, and the chief, Yurovsky, seemed like just normal men. Hardened, boasting, perhaps too zealous for their cause, but otherwise no different from how my father was when he was eager for a fight, or even my older brothers. I learned they are actually monsters. I am only glad that I left before meeting the assassin named Pyotr Ermankov. He was the worst of the lot, the one whom Medvedev said had personally...no. I don't want that image in my mind.

I only want to remember Maria and Anastasia as they were that day in June. Sweet, friendly, beautiful Maria, and the unforgettable Anastasia. They said it took a long time to kill the spirited youngest girl, and after having met her, I believe it.

The forest is getting cooler now that it is autumn, and the shade of the evergreens is so silent, so tranquil. They rest here, somewhere in the damp earth beneath the fragrant pines. As I walk farther, I feel more and more at peace.

The forest is so immense that I would have no hope to find the exact spot, nor do I wish to look for it. I stop walking and sit down in the damp grass resting my back against the trunk of a tall pine tree. The sky is blue today, the world goes on, the war goes on, and I still have a life to live while theirs is finished. I wish I brought flowers to leave here, even though this is not the actual burial place. There are no muddy lorry tracks to be seen, and the grass is undisturbed.

The voices of the girls can be heard in my mind's ear, and Maria still smiles in my dreams. Sitting under the tree with my face on my knees, I let myself cry and sob until I have no tears left.

...


End file.
